


Survival

by LookingForOctober



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForOctober/pseuds/LookingForOctober
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He put on his best fake American accent.  "Hello, Ms. Summers. My name is William and I am calling from Quality Life Insurance.  I'm calling to let you know--"</p><p>Spike didn't come to the Scoobies after escaping from the Initiative in Season 4, but he can't stay away entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published on the livejournal community sb_ashtray, in response to the prompt "James in _Chance_ (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v385/bogwitch/FE4_zps1dcef66d.jpg)"

He put on his best fake American accent. "Hello, Ms. Summers. My name is William and I am calling from Quality Life Insurance. I'm calling to let you know--"

"Could you please spell your name for me?" It wasn't Joyce. It wasn't Buffy either, thank God, it was the kid sister, whatever her name was.

"Nope. Sorry, I'm illiterate, and thanks for bringing it up." Little slip with the accent there. And of course he shouldn't have said that, but he shouldn't have made this call either. Not any of the times he'd done this.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. He resumed, American accent firmly in place. "I'm calling to let you know--"

"Could you tell me how you found this phone number?"

"In the john, right under 'for a good time, call'." Lucky this isn't being recorded. He set that up first thing, through a friend of a demon who could mess with electronics; it's the only way he's managed to keep this bloody job.

"Incredible," the girl said, completely unruffled. He was starting to like the brat. "And is this your full time job?"

"None of your bloody business, is it?" he said.

"I'm afraid I can neither confirm nor deny what may or may not be my business," the incredible girl said. "Can you please tell me if this is your full time job?"

He decided to humor her. "The only job I have. At least it keeps me in bl-- smokes and Jack Daniels."

"That's funny, my neighbor drinks the same thing." He's starting to get a suspicion as to where this is coming from. "And how long have you been in the telemarketing business?"

"Ever since I lost my mind," he said. It's true, too. Lost his mind to a computer chip, and no way to get it back again.

"That's quite long," she said after a slight pause.

"So what's it take to get you to toss your script?" he asked.

"I can't provide that information in the interest of this investigation." She giggled. "Besides, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I've been in the business long enough to know when I'm being played," Spike said. "Where'd you get the counter-script?"

"An answer to that question might jeopardize the partiality of this investigation," she said primly, and went on with renewed energy, "Tell me, do you like your job, William?"

"You're good, putting my name in like that." he said. But William didn't feel like his name, it dinged weakly where it should have clanged. Bloody ponce William. "What's your name, clever clogs?" he asked sourly.

"Dawn," she said, sounding pleased. "I'd like to know more about the person I'm speaking with, William. Can we get back to my question?"

"I hate my job. I'd rather be out raising Cain, but here I am."

"Why are you doing it then?"

"The things we do to survive," he said bitterly.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he knew damn well that wasn't on her sodding script. She actually sounded sincere. 

"Sod you and your sodding pity, you don't know anything," he said, and hung up. Last thing he wanted, stupid innocent feeling sorry about his worthless meaningless existence.

He'd never admit it, but she'd actually brightened it for a moment there. He had a soft spot for clever brats.

 

At first, every time he called the number it was like thrusting his fist into a wound that would never heal. One of those mythical numbers, symbolic as shit. He heard his enemy's voice, perky as hell, and the anger comes. That deep anger that says that she'll pay for this.

Never mind that it wasn't her that did it. Never mind that she'd put an end to the ones that did. She was the enemy, and he _needed_ that anger. That's why he called. When Buffy picked up the phone, he hung up, but some day he'd kill her. He knew that, and it was the only thing that kept him going. He was the vampire that killed Slayers, and he would be again. He bloody well _would_.

Then she quit answering. Joyce answered, and what the hell, he went through with his spiel long enough to find out she'd one daughter at home and the other was a freshman in college. That was good for a whole month of anger burning bright. He remembered when he'd gone off to Cambridge. Bloody Slayer had no right to a life. She belonged in the night.

He kept calling, even if Buffy wasn't there. Make it hurt. Just wait until he got the chip out. It had to be possible. He'd find the answer some day.

Meanwhile, he sat in a cubicle with a headset on his head, making calls all day long under the fluorescent lights. No windows. It was a natural vampire job, and unnatural as hell. He sat there surrounded by food, inane chattering food, and called up more food and tried to sell them life insurance. It wasn't even ironic any more. It's a job.

But Joyce was always polite, even if she probably wondered why she kept getting calls about life insurance. No, she lived in Sunnydale: reason enough. And Dawn was always good for some fun.

 

"Hello, Ms. Summers. My name is William and I am calling from Quality Life Insurance. I'm calling to let you know--"

The sob on the other end of the line stopped him.

"Dawn?"

"We don't need life insurance. She's dead," Dawn said, barely getting the words out.

He felt a shock right through the core of his being. Every muscle in his body protested. He felt dizzy and furious. _He_ was going to kill her. She was _his_.

"She can't be," he choked out.

"My mom is dead."

Oh. Not Buffy. "I remember when my mum died," he said, giddy with relief. "God, I loved her." After a moment of complete silence he added, trying to buck her up, "At least now you know you're free. She'll never betray you, she's got no power over you." 

Dawn hung up.

Maybe that hadn't been the consolation she'd been looking for.

 

After he got off shift that night, he went to a florist and bought some flowers. Then he stole a motorcycle. It was the first thing he'd actually stolen since the day he'd failed to fall on his stake -- just couldn't do it, however much he hated himself -- and crawled away to become a pathetic imitation of a human being, living on hate and the memories of better days.

But this was different. Stealing the bloody motorcycle wasn't even bad, it was just the only way to get to Sunnydale. It was practically good, mission of-- He wasn't sure why he was going. The woman was dead, she didn't need flowers. But he was going.

Half way to Sunnydale, he realized he probably could have taken a bus. 

Screw that, he was pathetic enough without taking the bloody bus. Wind on his face, this was the way to travel. He could get used to this again. 

He was almost sorry to arrive in Sunnydale. Take that back. He was definitely sorry to arrive in Sunnydale, where nothing good ever happened. And that had been back when he was somebody; now he just pretended, striding through the graveyards projecting menace. It felt like he was shedding a skin, finding himself again. It was a good feeling, but he knew it wasn't real. That's not who he was any more.

He found the gravestone in the third cemetery he checked out. Joyce Summers. Beloved mother. The sod on the grave was still a patchwork, it couldn't have been long. He set the flowers in front of the grave, and considered saying something, but now that he was here, it seemed even more pointless.

He turned and walked away silently. Five paces, then he turned back just in time to see the littlest Summers coming toward the grave. She had a fat book tucked under her arm and a grim expression on her face. He faded back fast, and she didn't look around, just made for the grave. Not smart, that. Could be anyone lurking around here.

Dawn knelt down in front of the grave and opened the book. She picked up a handful of earth, and Spike knew what she was up to.

"She won't be the same," he said without thinking.

Dawn scrambled to her feet, pulling out a stake she'd tucked into her waistband. Not completely oblivious to the danger, then. Her eyes widened in recognition. "Oh my God. You're Spike, aren't you?"

"That's me," he said, sitting down on a nearby grave, relishing the fear. 

"My sister will kill you," Dawn said. "You haven't got a chance."

"Not what I'm here for," he said. "But I guess you're looking for some consolation for when you're dead? Or turned. Want to be a vampire, pet?"

"No!" But there was something uncertain about that exclamation.

He leaned in. "Why not?"

"Because...I don't want to be something else. I just want to be me."

"But you want to bring your mum back. I bet you know she's gonna be...something else. Something wrong." He lowered his voice to a shiver inducing growl out of habit, but he was more interested in her answer than her terror.

"I won't give up on her," Dawn said stubbornly. "She's my mom. I don't care what else she is, no matter what--"

"Cause you love her," Spike said softly.

"I love her," Dawn said defiantly. "And anything's better than dead in the ground."

"You'd make a good vampire," Spike said. "Clawing your way up out of the ground..." He meant it as a compliment; she took it as a threat.

"My sister will kill you!"

"Said that already," he said, getting up and walking towards her. She backed away. "How about this, I'll give you ten seconds to run, and then I'm coming after you. One--"

Dawn started running.

Spike laughed. He wasn't sure what he felt, watching the girl flee. Satisfaction, yes, but something else. He understood her. Anything's better than dead in the ground. She was a fighter who'd never land a blow.

Maybe living like a human didn't have to be pathetic.

He left her book on the ground for her to come back and find. He knew she would. He left his flowers for a mother who was worth saving; he hoped the little bit wouldn't be disappointed. And he got on his stolen motorcycle and started driving, away from Sunnydale, away from his dead-end job too. Away from the big bad he'd once been, away from the pathetic devil that lurked inside.

Wherever he's going, he's leaving the past behind. No more anger to sustain him, no more moaning in a grave the size of a cubicle and calling it survival. He's off to find a way to be make this someone else he's become into himself. He's moving on.

Like the little girl said, any change is better than dead.

**Author's Note:**

> The telemarketing counter-script that Dawn is using and abusing at the beginning of this story can be found here: http://egbg.home.xs4all.nl/counterscript.html


End file.
